The Woman in Red
by TwoForATable
Summary: AU. Modern-day. Vanessa Ives is a Women's History professor with a shaky past and a knack for books, desserts and coffee. Ethan Chandler is seeking to start a new life in the city of London while struggling to write his latest novel. Upon first meeting, they can't quite stop thinking of each other...
1. Part 1

Every Sunday Vanessa Ives turned off her phone, locked up her flat and walked eight blocks to the Olympia Café and Bookstore. Most shops of the street would be closed and the in-flux of cars on this day and hour—nine o'clock—would be at a minimal. She carried the half-finished and well-used copy of Edgar Allen Poe's poetic anthology under her arm, along with her small purse. It was a rather pleasant day—not too cold and not too warm and the breeze softly hit her long dark tresses filling her pleasure.

Vanessa felt like red today and that's what she wore. A thin cotton white shirt and bright red knee-length skirt. It was rare that she showed her legs, but trousers or even her favorite pair of paint-splattered and worn jeans seemed too restraining. On her feet was the soft leather sandals she wore all too often—her feet and back never ached when she wore them. Not even when she walked or stood for too long.

She passed the bakery with a queue of people waiting to by pastries, bread and fresh coffee. She passed the pharmacy, always open. The school building was closed, its wrought-iron gates shutting all passersby from inside of it. She had always thought their delicate weavings and design to be beautiful… Gates and fences could be ambiguous things—oppressive in a way, but also beautiful.

As summer transitioned into autumn, she admired the bloomed flowers scattered in flower beds and window-boxes lining the working-class brick and stone townhouses—the leaves of the trees that slowly reddened and fell. This was her favorite time of the year, Vanessa was naturally a somber and introverted person—her few friends never hesitated informing her how piercing the look of her eyes could be, the no-nonsense curve of her lips. But anyone who truly and intimately knew her, knew also that behind the façade was a woman who felt things all too fiercely. She was selfless and capable of carrying the problems of the world on her shoulders—but her own she wished not to face—because they were so numerous and so absurdly dark and violent.

There wasn't a day where she didn't feel the chilling sensation of a voice whispering in her mind, the sensation that she was constantly being followed and watched. She never put her guards down—never—because she knew very well that the moment she distracted herself from her self-protection, she knew that the darkness could overcome her.

Sundays were her second favorite days. Like very few other people in the world, she looked forward to her Mondays—the first day of her weekly lectures at the University. She smiled at the thought of her students. After five years teaching at the University of London, every semester the faces would change—but the patterns continued, always the same types of

students. The ultra-feminists, the pseudo-hippies who wore sunglasses inside to hide their reddened eyes, the Marxists, the teacher's pets, the ones who spent most of the class outside, the gum-chewing material girls with their impeccable blonde straight hair and painful-looking heals. But with each class she learned something new and that was the best thing… She also loved the laughs they would occasionally exchange, to break the ice of a particularly complex discussion and the look on their faces when she would return their graded exams.

Never in her life had Vanessa thought she would become a professor—when her life had always been the field. It still was, but she had learned after a rough patch, that it was good to have some professional stability—and she could not deny that the cosmopolitan, urban woman in her enjoyed being in London.

She arrived at the café and her eyes shut in delight as she opened the door and the scent of books, aged wood, coffee and cinnamon hit her nose. The cave-woman in her wanted to live here forever, build a small fortress of books and never leave. Vanessa smiled and waved at her regular waiter, Amir, who came from Pakistan as a boy with his parents. He knew not to offer her a menu by now, but rather her usual large cup of black coffee with no sugar and buttercream torte.

As he set her meal on her usual table, at the far-end window booth, he smiled warmly.

"What are you reading today?"

"Poe. Have you finished the Dickens book I gave you?" He nodded eagerly.

"I enjoyed "A Tale of Two Cities" thoroughly, Ms. Ives… But I don't know, it didn't exactly speak to my soul as that other one—"The Kite Runner" did. I think it's because it was very close to home…" Vanessa nodded.

"I see. Are you interested in Italian literature?" Amir shrugged and motioned that he was not sure. "I brought you something, Amir." Vanessa opened her purse and pulled out her personal copy of 'Invisible Cities' by Italo Calvino… This is one of my favorites, so much so that I used a few quotes out of it for my thesis. I hope that you will enjoy it more."

Amir gladly took the book from her, being careful not to be spotted by his superiors.

"If it weren't for you, I would be working in a bookstore, knowing nothing of books." Vanessa smiled. She genuinely liked him. Amir was kind and hard-working, but had it tougher than lots of others because of his origins, his color and religion.

"You underestimate yourself, Amir. Sometimes I wish my students had half-your enthusiasm and drive. Now get to it, Mr. Sheridan is coming downstairs." She whispered the last part and winked at him conspiratorially.

From across the establishment, the owner nodded in her direction and Vanessa complimented him in return with a small smile. She sipped her warm drink and took a bite of her dessert; she still had to finish her poetry and then search the tall and overflowing shelves of the bookstore, for something good and new to read.

-/-

The sun was setting when she put down Michelle Perrot's "Women or the Silences of History". It hadn't been exactly the novelty she had been looking for, but it was the eternal must-read of every Historian, especially female ones such as herself. This had been the book that inspired Vanessa to delve into Female and Gender History and more specifically the history of women and witchcraft… Women who in many ways were like her.

Vanessa had devoted the past decade of her life studying what was the closest to home for her. She was deeply wrapped in her spiritualist and divine struggles and the search for answers to why she had premonitions, why she could read such ambiguous things like cards or leaves. How the phases of the moon altered her emotional state; why at moments she spoke an idiom like no other, that slid from her tongue easily like the hiss of a snake. Why she had to hide it from everyone… Why people unconsciously feared her. It was a force Vanessa conveyed of which she had little control.

She had never asked to be the way she was—to be cursed by knowledge beyond the explanations of science. To have deeply imbedded in her soul the presence of darkness and what she knew was the influence of the devil.

Vanessa had no control over the fact that for a week now she sensed his arrival in her life—the arrival of the man who would complete her. It was silly, she knew very well, but there was a hopeless romantic in her. Love would just be another curse added to her list. Vanessa read it in her tarot cards; she'd seen it in the tea leaves.

As the bell on the door of the bookstore and café chimed and the cool winds of the evening made her shiver and goose bumps rise onto her skin, Vanessa immediately knew it was him, walking inside in a casual dark green sweater, the stubble of a beard on his chin and twinkling brown eyes glancing straight at her. She hated that she'd blushed… were it not for the dim lighting at this hour Vanessa would be truly and honestly embarrassed.

Amir, bless his soul, interrupted their small exchange guiding the man to the booth in front of hers and she was quick to ask for a glass of cabernet. Another coffee and she wouldn't sleep. It was a problem she had—insomnia. The entire world functioned during the day—her body begged to be active at night.

"I've never seen you around here…" Vanessa finally said to him as he wouldn't strip his eyes from her. It was oddly alluring.

"I just arrived in London. So you're a regular then?" She nodded with a shadow of a smile—he was undoubtedly an American. He caught sight of the pile of books next to her. "And a bookworm, huh?" Vanessa nodded and sipped her wine—taking her time and appreciating the rich taste on her lips.

"Guilty as charged."

Amir arrived with the American's meal and coffee and he lifted his mug to her. Vanessa complied and watched him intently. He had a southern drawl like the ones she would hear in cowboy films growing up. Her father had been fond of them. The cowboy was handsome, she could not deny, but he also exuded a sort of warmth and another feeling Vanessa could not name—something downright sexy.

"I'm Ethan Chandler…"

"And I am on my way." Vanessa threw back the rest of her drink and left the money on her table, leaving an extra nice tip for Amir. She didn't look back.

He watched her—the mystery café woman he had also seen the Sunday before. He admired the contrast of the ruby-red on her skin, the curve of her hips as she sauntered away, carrying the books against her chest and his heart along with her—the long, dark and curly tendrils of her hair, falling well down her elbows; the curve of her full breasts that could be admired from the slight transparency of her shirt…

The striking and enigmatic bookworm was most definitely a sight to behold and a woman not to be easily forgotten.


	2. Part 2

That following week Ethan couldn't properly sleep or concentrate on the final chapters of his novel—due in less than a month. His editor kept calling and emailing, nagging and reminding him of his contract. He couldn't forget the amused grin on her lips, the arch of her dark and full eyebrows or the husky and sultry sound of her voice. He would be there early tomorrow morning, with work of his own, simply waiting for her to arrive.

…

Vanessa didn't know if she should laugh or cry at her students' essays. Some were excellent, about thirty percent, but the others made her worry for the future of the academy. Vanessa sighed and leaned back on her chair, her eyes darting to the icon of the Virgin and Child, at the wall at her right. She had bought this during a trip to Istanbul, in a small shop outside of the imposing Hagia Sophia—first the most grandiose of Orthodox churches, then a grand mosque and now, a museum. The eyes of the saintly woman depicted seemed to follow her—a judgmental but nevertheless compassionate gaze boring into her face. Vanessa felt as if she were a child again, under the stern gaze of her mother. In the pit of her stomach she knew the reason, the reason as to why she had abruptly left yesterday. She'd been scared—deeply afraid of the things that could come out of an affair with that cowboy man. Ethan Chandler. Vanessa wasn't the type who engaged in romance. No, for that she had books and a broad collection of French films.

She heard a soft knock on her office door and rolled back her chair to go answer it. An oliveskinned woman stood there in a brightly adorned green sweater and dark slacks, carrying a stack of manila folders and a small carton with two coffees. She smiled brightly back at Vanessa, blackberry eyes shiny even though Vanessa could see the bags under her eyes and the charming signs of age around her eyes and mouth... Vanessa also noticed the thinness of her arms.

"Miriam." She welcomed her colleague inside and the woman set her items on top of Vanessa's desk.

"You look like you've seen a ghost." Her accent was thick, but the most charming Vanessa had ever heard. Miriam Azima was a Persian friend of hers who had grown up in Paris after the revolution. As of three years, Miriam held an important position as head of the Egyptology department. She and Vanessa had consulted with one another for years now and during that time became close friends. Even a bit more than that.

"Well if it helps, the ghost isn't you." Miriam chuckled and took a seat on the leather armchair across from her.

"As you know I'm off to Egypt for the semester—its excavation season and I'll be settled around Alexandria." Vanessa smiled and nodded.

"Your Cleopatra obsession." Miriam laughed and nodded.

"Yes, my Cleopatra obsession. I was wondering if we could go out together, one last time before I leave—I'll be nearly three months away..."

Vanessa sighed, all of the sudden feeling tired and as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Miriam watched her intently and leaned in to gently hold Vanessa's hand. Her hands were warm and soft to the touch. "I worry about you—I worry that something will happen while I'm gone and you'll become your cave-woman self again. Have you been getting enough sleep? You drink too much coffee..."

"Miriam, I'm fine, everything is under control—everything, I promise. Tomorrow is Sunday and I'll be at the café as always, if you are willing we could meet there. And cave-woman? That's preposterous. Since when do you commit these silly anachronisms?" Miriam rolled her eyes, but still she wore a deep and worried frown upon her face. "You should join my team and leave with me to Egypt—there's still time to issue all of the necessary documents. I could need another expert on the field..." Vanessa shook her head.

"Miriam, I'm fine—I am no longer a child. You're dating Malcolm, that doesn't mean you've suddenly become my mother." A look into Miriam's crestfallen face and Vanessa knew she had gone too far. "I still feel it, you know. A thing inside, just waiting for me to yield and allow it to take control—but I promise you, it won't. I am far stronger than that—I have learned a lot."

"From that old witch in the countryside?" Miriam questioned, brows knitted in worry. Vanessa nodded.

"And I have been learning with myself as well—I've been reading old texts a lot—polishing my Latin, my Greek... I want to learn Arabic." Miriam nodded and her lips curved just the slightest, proving to Vanessa that her long-time friend trusted her. "My mind is busy."

For a long few moments they sat there drinking their coffees in one of those rare awkward encounters, the silence becoming awfully uncomfortable for a while. Vanessa knew there was something on her colleague's mind.

"So he hasn't told you yet?" Miriam asked quietly and gravely, breaking the ice. Vanessa's brows furrowed in confusion and her blue eyes fell at the corners a bit, in anticipation. "Malcolm and I have parted ways. A few weeks ago... a petty fight. It's killing me because I love him, but it doesn't hurt as much as it did when we were together—surprisingly. He just never understood..."

"I told you, didn't I, that he would never deliberately divorce Gladys. He certainly didn't for my mother and they were at it for decades—but you know that story." Miriam nodded, her lips beginning to tremble and tears pooling in her dark eyes.

"Don't ever let this happen to you, my friend, a man dominate your heart and soul in such a way that you become empty once he's tired of you. Men age beautifully but it is less so for us." Vanessa held Miriam's hand in hers and caressed them with her thumbs. "Love is an utterly humiliating thing." Vanessa's eyes locked with hers. "Whatever you do, Vanessa, don't fall in love." Vanessa walked towards Miriam and held her in her arms, offering the other woman a shoulder and support.

Miriam had been with her through thick and thin.

…

He wandered the streets in the evening, not yet knowing the Chelsea neighborhood enough to entertain himself with something, anything. He caught sight of a luminous sign from up and across the street. It looked to Ethan as if it were one of those dimly lit jazz clubs with good booze and pseudo-intellectual singletons.

He crossed and entered the establishment. The interior reminded him of the Bourbon street night clubs and pubs in New Orleans—the types of places he would go to meet eager young women, have a nice few drinks and give himself away to meaningless sexual pursuits. The types of things his married and goody-two-shoes brother thought were the best things in life. How opposites he and Michael were. Michael had done everything right—he'd gone to business school, opened up shop in a touristic part of New Orleans; he'd married a great girl— a doctor—and had two perfectly beautiful, blonde-headed children and a golden retriever.

And what had he planned that had gone right?

Ethan had never planned on being a writer—he was too lucky for his own good, that's what it was. He lived his nights playing his saxophone on the run-down terrace of his third-floor apartment. Women were in and out of his place and the refrigerator was never stocked. For a long time as he dealt with his alcohol problem, Michael had been the one to pay his bills and his rent... Looking back, Michael was a saint.

Ethan had been lucky that during a mad frenzy, when for a week he couldn't sleep because his body begged for liquor and his brother had locked him inside without a key, his fingers had typed non-stop on the desktop computer and when on a Monday afternoon Michael had come to check on him—he was passed out on the floor from withdrawal and dehydration—but having birthed his greatest masterpiece yet. It had also been Michael the one to take copies of the manuscript and send them off to several publishing companies. And after that first book, an instant best-seller, another four had followed—and all at once Ethan had his pockets overflowing with money, his debts to his brother all paid and he was hitchhiking from Ecuador, all the way to Patagonia, outlining South America.

And here he was now, a year after Patagonia, sitting in a bar nursing his first glass of whiskey in five years—imagining her face on that of each and every woman who walked inside.

…

Ethan walked home that night, taking his time and trying to etch into his memory each shop front, each street name, each tree, each and every one of those clichéd red telephone booths and each lamp post. Cars and buses passed by rapidly, he hadn't yet summoned the courage to drive a car here. Not only because of the opposite driver's side, but mainly because this was a city too beautiful to be seen from behind a wheel. It could be that he was simply biased— London had been his boyhood dream.

Once he arrived at the stone townhouse with a lovely green front door, he pulled out the small ring with only two keys from his pocket. Once there he climbed a flight of stairs, passing in front of the landlord's black-painted door and stopping in front of apartment 2-B. He shut the door behind him and immediately kicked off his shoes and pulled off his sweater. He crossed the small living room—empty aside from the essentials—and it took only eight steps to enter the single bedroom. He pulled off his trousers and entered the adjacent bathroom—straight for the shower. He closed his eyes in pleasure as the hot water hit his skin.

Her image continued to plague his thoughts. Ethan hadn't been able to properly sleep that night—entirely due to anticipation. He desperately wanted to be the first customer at the Olympia Café tomorrow and he was prepared to be the last if it meant he'd see her, his mystery lady in red. He sat up in his bed, laptop in front of him, the bright white screen of his writing software staring back at him, blank. Ethan took a couple of deep breaths and tried to think of his characters—how this should be the turning point of the story—and then he jumped, having imagined her raspy voice speak seductively against his ear. She wasn't there—obviously—but like an ethereal faerie, mischievous twinkle in her eyes, she haunted him until dawn.

Morning had finally come.

* * *

 **Thank you MusketeerAdventure for your heart-warming review (keep them coming!) and all of you who took the time to follow or favorite this story.**

 **Reviews are far more than welcome (the muse thanks you in advance).**

 **-Theda**


	3. Part 3

That morning Vanessa Ives rushed into her car, so furious she barely acknowledged the fact that she was already late to the café. The new book she had carefully selected for Amir lay forgotten on the floor of her passenger's seat. Thankfully there were no traffic jams and she was able to arrive at the imposing stone townhouse in twenty minutes. Vanessa parked under a large jacaranda tree and sat there, staring at the black of his front door, trying to calm her nerves—trying to put herself together. She couldn't bear to expose herself too much to him—he certainly did not deserve it. All those years of him taking her for granted… And her poor mother.

The fact that before her very eyes history was repeating itself—it was almost too much to bear. She needed, desperately, to look into his eyes and tell him what a vile and heartless human being he was. Vanessa needed to say to him, point her finger and shout at him all of the heartbreak he had caused. He had the power to lure people in and then completely destroy them.

It had been that way with Vanessa's mother. He had shattered Gladys Murray to the core, she a shell of a woman—and he'd done the same with Mina. Now it was her beloved, dearest friend Miriam who was left devastated and heartbroken.

Vanessa, yet again, vowed never to allow him fully into her heart—to never allow herself to be played with and hurt by him. She loved herself far more than her lifelong need to be accepted.

She deserved far better than him.

Taking a deep breath, she gathered her red scarf, one she'd kept for years, the only remaining gift from her mother—knit with love during a particularly cold winter—her leather purse and shut the door of the car behind her, walking head held high towards the entrance of his home—a home that once had been hers as well.

She pressed the doorbell and less than a minute later she was greeted by the expressionless face of Sembene—coffee colored eyes staring down at her—for a split second conveying surprise and even joy. Perhaps Sembene was the only one, besides her, immune to the man that stood by the stairs, steel-colored eyes watching her unfaltering. The same graying beard and hair, the same wrinkles at the corner of his eyes—ever the charmer—the same harsh gaze.

But Vanessa was no longer a small girl, pining for his affections. She no longer shrunk under his imposing, patronizing stance.

"Sembene—how are you?" He'd aged with the years, but as some things never changed, he slightly bowed to her in compliment and without her asking, took her coat, bag and scarf. He didn't respond either.

"Vanessa, for what do I owe your visit?" His voice echoed throughout the foyer, almost entirely covered in rich, dark wood. The hint of debauchery in his voice didn't escape her and her eyes locked with his—unfaltering.

"I believe a conversation is long overdue, Malcolm." He ceremoniously motioned for her to accompany him inside his study—the rows and rows of old tomes and maps greeting her. Vanessa recalled her younger years, sneaking inside late at night to simply run her hands along the rows of them, tracing with her nimble, childlike fingers the titles etched to the hardcover spines.

Vanessa diligently followed him inside, they stood facing each other in the middle of the room and as he moved to press a kiss to her cheek, Vanessa veered away.

"Gladys will be pleased to know you paid us a visit, Vanessa." He said, looking past her, outside the large bay windows.

"Liar—I never pleased her in any form and you very well know it. The daughter of the concubine, the progeny of her most despised relation." The very thought of it filled her tongue with that bitter, hateful taste—the taste of shame.

"Very well, if you see it that way…" His eyes darted towards her rigid, almost expressionless face. The stormy-blue of her eyes showcasing the duel of humiliations that would follow.

And there was so much she wanted to shout at his face.

"Why do you insist on scorning and ruining every single person in this life that cares about you? Why oh why do you feel yourself so powerful and virile when shattering the hearts and emotions of those who love you? Why do you push people away,

Malcolm?"

"You are here because of Miriam then?" Vanessa nearly elicited a feral growl—her hands shook in rage as she paced the floor, warmth rising to her cheeks and her face turning red.

"Did you ever love them, any of them? Anyone beyond yourself?"

"You mean your mother?" Hot, angry tears pooled in her eyes and she hated herself for being so damn weak. Yes, her mother! Vanessa wanted to shout… but she knew it was much more than that. Had he ever loved her? Was the true question, of which she would never be able to utter. Because he wouldn't ever hurt her.

How could one be so ruthless?

"Miriam and I are adults, Vanessa, as were I and your mother all those years ago. You don't need to be carrying people's burdens on your shoulder as if you were a savior of the misfortune. You are nothing but a woman hollow, trying to find in others reasons

as to why you are so unhappy! You blame me and you blame Claire and Mina and everyone—but not once do you acknowledge your own faults!"

"What fucking faults, you worthless excuse of a man?! The fact that I wanted a father who would love and be proud of me—the fact that I grew to hate you for stealing away my mother, for killing her inside far before illness took her away?" Tears streamed rapidly down Vanessa's cheeks. Blood boiled beneath her skin. "The fact, that you turned your back on me when I was the most vulnerable—a girl alone in this fucking, miserable world?"

"You turned your back to us Vanessa, the minute you whored yourself to Mina's betrothed! You caused all of this—it's your fault our family fell apart and Mina went away!"

"No—it was your fault for teaching me there was no other way to love but to hurt! I know better though, and you, Malcolm, are no different from what you describe of me. You are a hollow man seeking to blame others for all of the bad you brought upon yourself and those who surround you." Vanessa forcefully wiped off the tears and pointed a shaky finger at him—her nose just a few inches from his—blue eyes locked on blue. "There was a time when all I desired was your approval and affection. There will come a day when you shall seek mine—and when that day comes I shall show you no mercy."

Vanessa took a step back and glanced at the older man's perplexed expression and marched away without looking back. She passed by Sembene already expecting her with her belongings in hand—his eyes full of silent approval—and Vanessa vanished without a word.

And as fast as she had come she arrived at the Olympia Café and Bookstore. Eyes swollen and rebellious dark curls of hair falling around her face like a disheveled goddess. Amir stood anxiously biting his bottom lip behind the large front counter. Vanessa glanced at her friend and followed his gaze towards her regular seat in the very back, next to the window.

To her surprise, Mr. Cowboy sat there, sipping coffee out of the maroon-colored mug with the establishment logo, his eyes locked on the tablet in his hands—no doubt concentrated on his reading. How positively outrageous of him!

Instantly all the leftover anger from her row with Malcolm dissipated and Vanessa couldn't help the very distinct type of warmth that spread throughout her body. The sort of feeling that made you all mellow inside.

Vanessa threw her purse at the end of the empty side of the booth and both graciously and swiftly slipped inside it—sitting across from the American intruder.

"You are bold—I'll give you that." She said to him, the corners of her lips curving into a rather amused grin.

"Good morning to you too, darlin'."

Before she could respond to him, Amir arrived with her coffee and buttercream torte, placing it opposite her.

"I hope you don't mind, Ms. Ives..." She shook her head and offered the slightly nervous young man a reassuring smile, reaching for her purse to retrieve this week's book.

"Have you finished Invisible Cities?"

"Yes—yes I have! Three days ago in fact—my mother threatened to throw it in the Thames, I could barely put it down. Which one is that, Miss?" He asked, eagerly motioning towards the book Vanessa held.

"This, my friend is… life-changing." And so she handed him a hardcover, leather bound thing with red and gold ribbon page markers. "It's called a journal and it's for you to write your own story… for me to read this time."

"I have to write the entire thing until next Sunday?"

"Not the entire thing—just as far as you can manage." Amir smiled hesitantly and

Vanessa rolled her eyes at his childish reservations. "Each Sunday, something new."

"You overestimate me Ms. Ives—I'm no such writer." Vanessa sipped her coffee and chuckled.

"I am still yet to be wrong, Amir." The young man shrugged and bowed his head in thanks—half-oblivious to the other customers arriving and calling for his services.

"That was very kind of you." His cowboy accent, his grave, deep voice made her skin tingle… Suddenly Vanessa was seventeen all over again.

"No—no it was not, Mr. Chandler. It was necessary, is all." He didn't insist on the subject and finished his now cold drink.

"And how is my angry little bookworm today?" He asked, not ripping his warm hazel-eyes from hers—a playful grin on his lips.

"Fed up." She took a bite of her dessert and the buttery, sweet and cinnamon-y flavor of it was heaven on her tongue, her eyes closing for just a second in pleasure. A barely audible moan escaped her lips.

Ethan's eyes, full of unspoken desire watched her, hypnotized by her natural beauty— not only the looks, so exquisite, but also astonished by how very authentic she was.

Ms. Ives—now he knew at least a part of her name—was one of those rare types of women… the ones who completely robbed you of your heart.

He took his own small sugar spoon and stole a piece of her dessert.

"You really are a shameless, despicable man, aren't you?" Mr. Cowboy took great pleasure in making his mysterious bookworm smile that day.

And he promised to do so again on the next.


	4. Part 4

Sir Malcolm Murray retired early to his bedroom that night—he'd dismissed the maid and Sembene for the rest of the day. He watched not caring to light a single lamp, as the house was engulfed in darkness. He sat on his favorite leather chair, facing the large window, watching the movements of the street.

The words Vanessa had said to him echoed in his head and each time he dwelled on them, it was as if he received a hard kick in the chest. Vanessa had the ability to do that, to fearlessly confront him and say to him what no one else had the courage to. She had grown to be a strong, independent and fierce woman, owning the strength of character her mother had lacked—or not… Malcolm could barely remember, so much time had passed… He would look at his reflection every morning in the mirror and count the wrinkles on his face and try to remember the details of the past thirty or so years—it felt as if he hadn't lived those thirty years at all—like he disappeared somewhere and then was abruptly put in a different dimension.

Miriam was probably on her way to Egypt right now, on with her life—without him.

Mina disappeared into the world and Peter, his only son, Peter passed away years ago. And off went everyone he cared about—his wife, Gladys, retired permanently to their country home—Claire Ives, his very first love and the woman who gave all of herself to him, including her honor and dignity… she too was gone, in heaven no doubt if there ever was one. And Vanessa Ives—whether he liked it or not, wanted or not, was his only living family. However, even she had made it clear, just a few days ago, that she no longer wanted anything to do with him.

And the girl couldn't be more accurate in her predictions… Malcolm did need her and he did want her affections, her approval. Headstrong as he knows she is, he hasn't much hope to revive their relationship—if ever they had one. Sir Malcolm liked to think that at one point in their lives, Vanessa and he had been very close—he had been the father she deserved and she had been the apple of his eye—more so than his darling Mina or Peter. But the past always felt like a blur to him—he'd been so busy, so business centered… he could very well be distorting things—eluding himself—painting himself as less of a monster.

Miriam hadn't thought of him as a monster, nor had Claire—not even Vanessa, so, so long ago.

Vanessa and her huge and curious blue eyes—her dark curls crowning her face like a lion's mane—rebellious and unkempt, bouncing as she moved. As a little girl—always a tad overweight, Vanessa would climb onto his lap and play with his beard, listen intently as he told her stories of Africa and explorers, Malcolm rocking her until she fell asleep. But Vanessa was no longer that little girl; her blue eyes now gazed upon him in contempt. They had hurt each other over the years and Claire Ives' passing had only deepened the gap between them. Perhaps that memory of her was only his—her small, soft little fingers, adoring him—her hero. And he happy to be with her.

Malcolm held back the tears that desperately wanted to fall from his eyes—the weight of this solitude, all of these regrets burning incessantly in his chest. He thought of Miriam and her warm brown eyes, how she tenderly would trace the wrinkles on his face, caress the hair at the nape of his neck after making love.

He hadn't loved a woman so intensely since Claire. Perhaps that is the true reason for him leaving her, Miriam—his conscious wouldn't be able to stand the guilt of hurting and destroying her, such as he had Vanessa's mother. Because he did think of Claire every single day—his bittersweet love, his impossible love.

One love did not replace another. No one would ever take Claire's place in his heart—he realized this early on in his relationship with the beautiful, Persian professor. But Miriam—she too was beloved to him, desired by him and he ached for her presence, to hear her voice, feel her touch. Malcolm leaned his head back and closed his eyes trying to relive the joyful sensation of her being there.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the familiar crack of the floorboards from the hall, footsteps ceremoniously approaching his bedroom door. Malcolm listened intently as the doorknob turned and the heavy door opened. The steps were heavy, calculated, but made little noise.

"I thought I had dismissed you for the night, Sembene." He said, not daring to rip his face away from his window.

Sembene pulled the cushioned stool from the foot of the bed and pulled it closer to where he sat. For a moment Sembene stood there, pondering whether he should turn on the lights or not. He decided the darkness would be better suited to his master's mood and so he sat there, extending his hand, offering Sir Malcolm a drink—his favorite scotch, no ice. Sembene too had his own drink in hand—the luxuries of being not only Sir Malcolm's faithful servant for so long, but also, his only real companion.

Malcolm took a sip of his scotch and let it burn in his mouth. It didn't burn as much as the guilt, the regret and the pulsing emptiness he felt, though.

"I suppose it is just the two of us lonely bastards then, my friend…"

"Yes."

…

That same night, Vanessa Ives sat sprawled on a certain cowboy's sofa, a glass of wine in her hand, cheeks a bright crimson, both because of the few drinks she's had and because he knows how to make her laugh. Ethan's sitting across from her on what he calls his favorite chair, rummaging through a cardboard box filled with old vinyl records. He reads the title of them one by one before he smiles and places the chosen old thing on its player. The sound of the needle accompanying the melody is one of those things that bring back memories of days passed—her childhood and her mother listening to music in the highest volume. For a fraction of a moment Vanessa tries to think why she doesn't play her records more often… piled up as they are in the wall to wall shelves of her flat—because maybe iPods are easier… and YouTube. But also because there are moments when the nostalgia hits you and it's just very difficult to bear.

"You ever heard o' Billy Joel, Willie Nelson…?" He asks, refilling her glass but failing to do so with his.

"I don't live under a rock Ethan, if that's what you're thinking." She said with a smile, although it didn't quite reach her eyes. She was a melancholic person, he very soon realized, but also strong and brave—or she wouldn't have agreed to accompany him in the first place, a stranger she met in small and half-forgotten café.

"So you've heard this song?" She paused for a moment, listening intently, the words, the melody… the sadness of the stories told.

 ** _…_** ** _they're sharing a drink they call loneliness,_**

 ** _but it's better than drinking alone._**

"I love it, I think I heard it in a film once… don't know which." Vanessa said after a while. Ethan nodded and they sat there in silence, just listening to the song, each one comfortably lost in their thoughts. Vanessa couldn't help but sing though, after a while, albeit timidly. Her mother used to say that those who sing send their sorrows and problems away. This would be a good day to do that… " _Sing us a song you're the piano man, sing us a song tonight. Well we're all in the mood for a melody, and you got us feeling alright_ …"

The song ended and along with it the record. The cool evening breeze blew forcefully through the wide windows… the curtains floating in the air. A chill went up her spine and suddenly her eyes darted towards his once again.

He had a look about him. A look she couldn't quite decipher—but God was he handsome. For a somewhat alien reason, her hands freed her hair from its many pins and let it all fall over her shoulders like a cascade of dark waves, curling in the edges. Her lips were swollen and dark pink from the wine she'd drunk probably a bit too much of—her heart raced in her chest like it hadn't so passionately ever before. His eyes never left her, tracing each and every visible inch of her. Vanessa knew very well that he would never make the first move—he respected her too much for that.

So she gathered all of the strength within her, rose from her seat and crossed the small space between them, leaning down to touch both sides of his face—his untrimmed beard prickly, but alluringly so beneath her fingers. She slowly leaned in and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss on his forehead—another on his right eye and then another on his left. Soon her lips were pressed against his and it was as if her whole being caught in fire, her hands trembled. The feel of his arms circling her waist was all she needed and for the first time in her life she allowed a man to guide her—to take the lead.

He skin tingled beneath his touch and all troubles disappeared from her mind—her whole world was this—this tiny moment. His hands travelled through her hair, his lips trailed kisses along her neck, and torso… his fingers wandered along the pale, soft and sensitive skin under her blouse, playing with the hem of her brassiere. And she let him.

Vanessa ached with pleasure, with desire. It all pulsed through her body and all she wanted was to have him, here, inside of her—to take her to territories only heard of. And she let him guide her, she trusted him, a cowboy, a stranger, like she trusted no one else.

She straddled his hips, Ethan still seated on the blasted chair. His lips once more met with hers—urgent, hot and indecent—his hands holding and pulling her as close as possible. She tasted deliciously, of wine, coffee, dessert and something entirely her. Her scent was all those things and enticing—he was under her spell, his mystery woman in red.

And he wasn't just about to simply fuck her.

And for a millisecond, her thoughts reverted to Miriam—the conversation they held the past week… the pain in her dark eyes.

Their eyes met and they knew it wasn't meant to be—at least not now… Ethan placed lingering kisses on her lips, her neck and her chest. He admired who glowing beauty, the swollen and deep rose of her lips, the stained red lipstick and tucked the escaping strands of hair behind her ear.

"I'll see you next Sunday?" He asked and her lips curved up ever so slightly, a sensual glow in her eyes.

"Maybe…"


	5. Part 5

It was Sunday, the night of the blood moon—the eclipse that at midnight, now, would unleash all that was dark, sinful and evil.

This very night Vanessa Ives could feel it stronger than ever—that incessant scratching from inside. She heard voices—an unintelligible amalgam of many people speaking at once. The professor's head and the back of her neck throbbed in pain; her blood pressure was exceedingly high. The strong vertigo prevented her from being able to open her eyes and each time she did or tried to eat, all of her stomach's contents would come out… Until there was nothing more but water and the horrible bile that burned her throat and mouth.

As she tried to move around in the darkness of her bedroom, Vanessa's toe hit the corner of her dresser and immediately she tripped and fell to the ground. Her entire body was overtaken by the worst pain Vanessa had ever felt—she could feel it, the warm blood trickling down from the place where she banged her head to the ground. She tried to call for help but it was no use… her voice was far too weak. She cried helplessly—wishing it could all go away—this pain, this torture, her life… And the maddening whispers that never stopped.

…

For some reason his head hurt horrors tonight. It was far worse than the migraines that came after hangovers or the constant and pulsing pain of a coming cold. He lay in his bed and stared up at the ceiling. Everything was dark and only a single vanilla candle lit the entire apartment. It had been a gift, the candle. Ethan's sister-in-law had found a hobby in candle making. He missed them, his family. London was a great city with still lots to see and know, however, it was very easy to get caught up in sorrows—Ethan was surrounded by his loneliness, by the invasion of his deepest thoughts and memories.

He tried to think of happy thoughts, the time he'd been in Buenos Aires and he learned how to dance the tango. The red and black hues of color and a dim yellow light in a small and crowded tavern; the electricity of his dance partner, Leonor's movements and the strength in her expression… You could never smile with tango, yet it had made Ethan feel alive inside—caught in an amazing fire—but without the burning pain.

He had honestly considered living there, renting the studio-apartment on top of Elena and her family's. In Buenos Aires he had made friends, he'd found passion again, he'd been free.

He would ride his bicycle throughout town and walk through the streets watching the coming and going of pedestrians. Ethan had enjoyed sitting down on the small neighborhood _plazas_ and playing chess. He would practice his Spanish with the gray-haired gentlemen who everyday were there—complaining about their demanding wives, smoking cigarettes and always, always talking of their pasts.

Leonor's granduncle had been one of them— _señor_ Massimo Ferriani. His family had immigrated from a poor and war-stricken village in the south of Italy, he then only a young boy. He recalled having been born in his grandmother's home and swore to God and all his creations that the first thing he heard being brought into this world was a gunshot and the high-pitched scream of a dying neighbor. So no, he never liked guns. He'd been born in 1941.

And each of them told Ethan stories from their childhoods in poverty and how as communist students they had fought against the military dictatorship—some of them having even gone through torture and been imprisoned—others had their brothers, cousins, friends and lovers killed.

It was their story Ethan desperately tried to write about— _had_ to write about.

Ethan remembered saying goodbye to Leonor, to Buenos Aires. They had become his greatest friends.

"Goodbye, Leonor, you have the name of a queen."

She had smiled and embraced him tight; her husband had been waiting in the car with her children.

"Whenever you need a friend, someone to talk to, people who care—please come to Buenos Aires. We can eat empanadas and cry along to Mercedes Sosa all night long."

Ethan had almost fallen in love with her—and Leonor with him.

…

Far away from London, in the cold and gray of the Moorish countryside, an old woman, house, hair and clothing unkempt, read her cards that were spread out in front of her, on top of the wooden table.

Her girl, her little scorpion was in deep trouble and needed her help. She expertly piled up her cards and wrapped them carefully in the small square of red velvet, placing them inside an antique wooden box with the carving of a tree. She spun around her small home and grabbed the glass jars containing all of her necessary herbs and unguents. She had a long journey ahead if she expected to arrive on time for her loved one.

She didn't even bother with clothes, slipping on her old leather boots and putting out the fireplace. She muttered a few words, lips moving so fast that their movement was nearly imperceptible. She pulled the keys to her car and drove as fast as she could, not bothering with speed limits or fines.

…

Morning arrived and the odd old woman parked her car across the street from the four-story brick building where Professor Vanessa Ives lived. She muttered a few other words under her breath and without the need of a key or a pin, the front door unlocked. She climbed the stairs because she didn't yet believe in elevators and arrived puffing on the top floor where Vanessa resided. Why on earth the girl insisted on heights was beyond her. She had always been this way—complicated—ever since she was a very young girl.

Vanessa's door was much more difficult to open—she had taught her well—but her little scorpion also trusted her and after insisting a little while longer, she was able to walk inside.

The first thing the old woman saw was a pretty home stuffed with books and different sized, shaped and colored portraits on the walls. Vanessa had candles, crystals and stones scattered about and tiny strings of mirrors blended into the white linen curtains—to keep the negative energies out. And then she saw it, that miserable, miserable creature and then the other one too. A snowy-white cat with big gray eyes sat lazily on top of the leather sofa, without a care in the world and the dog frantically barked, urging the visitor deeper within the home—towards her human.

"All right, all right Zenobia, where is she?" She muttered following the dog into Vanessa's bedroom where Vanessa lay sprawled on the floor, now dry blood glued to her face, hair and staining the wide wooden floorboards. "You poor little scorpion… Are those demons tormenting you once again?" She sighed and started working, cleaning the unconscious woman's face and wounds, checking for her pulse, her temperature…

She was too thin for the old woman's liking—she probably didn't take much time to prepare food and eat all meals of the day. Always working, always with a million other priorities—it was as if Vanessa avoided being alone with herself.

…

Ethan Chandler jumped out of bed that morning, eager to write and write he did all day long until there was nothing else to be written. And that very night he sent his manuscript to his editor, with a blind copy to his brother and sister-n-law—his greatest critics yet.

As he looked out of his window—mentally exhausted and having just enjoyed some celebratory pizza, he thought of her, his woman in red—red of passion and of life. Ethan wondered what she could be doing right now, a beautiful Monday night. Watching a film or reading a book? Planning her lessons or grading student papers? Laughing at a joke she heard on television or lay in her bed asleep and serene, her hair like a midnight curtain draped across her pristine white pillows.

He longed for Sunday to arrive again, so that he could see her and look into her eyes, so that he could feel the scent of her long hair and his ears could rejoice in the soft and husky tones of her voice. So he could see her smile with those bright red lips, smile until the corner of her eyes crinkled and he couldn't be any happier, because happiness was there, sitting in that café with her.

Ethan cursed himself for not having ever written down her phone number—Jesus, the way she was, he didn't even know if she had one. He desperately wanted to see her again.

…

"Joan," she heard the weak whisper. "Joan, tell me the story of that lady—the greatest of them all." The old woman shook her head and rolled her eyes.

"Not until you finish the soup, little scorpion. You need some meat in your bones if you want to fight this thing to the fullest." Vanessa couldn't help but smile, even if her head still throbbed in pain. Joan would always be her dry and blunt self—no smiles, no tenderness, but what would be of Vanessa without her?

"I wish I didn't have to fight." Joan frowned deeply.

"Don't we all have unattainable wishes?" The old woman said, gazing at nothing specific. "The greatest lady of all was it—the story of which you wanted hear?"

And just as if Vanessa were a little girl, Joan went about telling her the tale in vivid and dramatic detail—as if she herself had been there, a spectator within the trees of the dark and mystical forests that surrounded the land of the witches…

* * *

 **Thank you, thank you, thank you Mars for your review, I hope you enjoy this one too!**


	6. Part 6

**Make way for the sexy times... This one's for Scorpionmother who suggested I add some. Enjoy!**

* * *

Perhaps it had been God who had led him here, Thursday at five in the morning standing in front of a door he'd never seen before—in the thankless prior-to-dawn cold. He'd been restless in his sleep, her beautiful face so full of pain and anguish plaguing him even in his unconsciousness. Almost three weeks without seeing her, without hearing some voice. She had to be home—he just had to catch her before she left for the university… Ethan wonders if she will look beautifully disheveled, as every woman does when just risen—rosy cheeks, messy hair, swollen eyes, deep whispery voice…

He buzzed her intercom. One. Two. _Three_. He buried his hands in his pant pockets and his heart beat fast in his chest—the small plaque had her name on it. _V. Ives_.

" _Who the bloody hell is it?_ " His heart most probably skipped a beat at the sound of her voice. He couldn't help but chuckle… Perhaps adorable wasn't the best word to describe Professor Ives as, but God she was too much.

"It's Mr. Cowboy." Silence. It was as if years passed as he waited for her response… instead, with a buzz, the front door opened and he was on his way up through the elevator.

As he stepped out of the antique metal contraption—of which he would never climb into again, the first thing he saw was her—probably the sexiest he'd ever seen, an ivory-colored silk robe loosely tied to her waist, flannel pajama pants and an old t-shirt. Her hair was up in a messy bun, loose tendrils falling over her shoulders and face… her arms were crossed above her chest and she had that no-nonsense look about her—she wore a pair of red spectacles and had a cigarette between two fingers. _Only it wasn't a cigarette._

"Mornin' Miss Ives…" He said with that lopsided grin of his, even his eyes smiled, she mused.

"What are you a part time stalker when not producing literary masterpieces?" He could sense the humor in her voice—it was in her blue-gray eyes too.

"Ah, so you know…" She tilted her head and rolled her eyes.

"I've read everything you've published so far, bookworm, remember?" He chuckled and looked at his left, taking in the surroundings of the hallway.

"You should follow me inside before Mr. Whittaker senses my… _herbal medicine_. He was with the Scotland Yard for over forty years." She leaned in to whisper and then took the joint in between her lips. Her eyes were provocatively locked with his—it was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen… And he'd seen a lot.

Ethan followed her inside and took in the surroundings of her home. Everything very tasteful, a perfect mix of antique junk that people insisted on calling vintage and modern pieces… It all looked surprisingly pretty. She had a lot of art on her walls and books. Books were in every corner he looked at.

"It's funny, she didn't bark at you—not once." He heard her say, pointing at the elderly German Shepard watching him from the doorway he could only imagine led to the kitchen. "That's Zenobia… She's been growing old with me for a while now—and then there's my cat, Seraphine—sleeping under my bed as usual…"

Vanessa motioned for him to follow her inside the kitchen. The cabinets were wooden, but painted a deep burgundy color, most of the large space was taken up by a wide kitchen island. He could tell she'd been preparing breakfast.

"You suddenly disappeared, what happened?" She frowned and rotated her hand lazily in the air, as if belittling the entire fact. "You don't seem like the type to break with routine."

"Ah—is that so?" She raised a dark brow of hers and offered him the cigarette. He politely complied and inhaled, enjoying as the herbal medicine, as she so eloquently put it, made him feel full of pleasure, at ease actually. It had been a while…

"Yeah—your friend Amir and I kind of missed you." She smiled tenderly at the mentioning of the young man's name.

"I was _ill_ —away from the café, away from work. My boss insists I take on an assistant, he thinks I have too much pressure on my shoulders. Can you imagine? It's the most erroneous thing I've ever heard!" Vanessa exclaimed exasperatedly as she moved around the kitchen, pouring them both coffee and pulling out of the oven a delicious looking baguette. "Honestly, Mr. Chandler, the only things I really have in this life are the classes I teach and my research…"

"You were _ill_ , you say, because I don't think a silly disease would deter you from the only things you have in life, _darlin'_ " She frowned deeply, locking her eyes at him. She probably wasn't used to being questioned. "I had a dream with you, Vanessa—it didn't look pretty."

"And in this dream, Mr. Chandler, did you have a crystal ball?" He shrugged her sarcastic comment off and huffed.

"I grew up in New Orleans, Ms. Ives—the notion of things existing, seemingly beyond this world, it's all passed on—generation after generation. The moment I first saw you—the moment I kissed your lips, I could _feel_ it, this power emanating from you. You're literally from out of this world."

"That is _ridiculous_! How dare you speak to me with such ludicrous accusations, I nev—" Ethan could tell Vanessa was angry, defensive even, gradually raising her voice. He didn't think much of it however, in fact, Ethan had half-expected her to be. He interrupted her though, rounding the kitchen island, turning and pulling her towards him. She looked up to meet his gaze—tiny and flushed against his body.

"Hey—It's okay…" He held his beloved woman in red's cheek tenderly and patiently watched as the emotions shifted in her eyes, how after a few seconds she relaxed. He bowed his head until their foreheads met. Soon, she was on the tip of her barefoot toes, grazing her lips against his. His entire body trembled at the contact—butterflies went crazy in his stomach—he'd never felt like this for any woman.

They barely knew each other and yet, he'd never felt like he quite belonged somewhere, until now.

He kissed her back, their touches and caresses becoming more urgent, more demanding. He tightened his hold around her hips, this time bellow the robe, while the other hand busied itself with making contact with every inch of visible, ever-soft and glowing skin.

Before he knew it the sun was high on the sky and they were rolling around naked on her white-sheeted bed, limbs tangled together in such a way that Vanessa didn't know where he began and she ended. His lips feasted on the sensitive skin on the side of the professor's neck, trailed kisses along her collarbone and down, until they reached the valley between her breasts and he adored those too.

Mr. Cowboy's timing couldn't be more perfect as Ms. Ives only needed to be at work at three pm today—and she wasn't just about to leave this bed.

Pleasure was easy and bountiful that Thursday morning and it seemed like the two lovers had a lovely weekend to look forward to.

…

She reposed on top of him, resting her chin on his firm chest.

"What— _what is it_?" He asked lazily, his fingers playing with the curls that crowned her pink and beautiful face. Vanessa bit the bottom of her lips, failing at her attempt of hiding a smile.

"Come on a date with me, Mr. Chandler." She said, nuzzling him affectionately. At this point the entire family was on the bed. Zenobia the dog lay at Ethan's left and the cat had curled up at his feet.

"Sure, when?" Her eyes were bright and he imagined, so were his. Thus was the natural and ethereal beauty—and sensations—of two lovers, having just, well… _made love_.

"Saturday as not to disrupt my _routine_. I honestly need to finish a couple of books and, of course, I owe it to Amir to read his journal. The poor boy, I'm two Sundays late… Is Saturday good for you, Ethan?"

"Perfect." She smiled and for a few comfortable moments they just lay there, without a care in the world, wrapped around each other and in perfect and comfortable silence.

"How is it though that you got here?"

"My crystal ball?" Vanessa laughed whole-heartedly, a loud and unabashed thing, an exquisite sound already etched to his brain. It was contagious. "You're hysterical you know that?"

"I do now."

"So what's your favorite color?" Vanessa raised a brow and shook her head in fake dismay.

"Red—blood red." He chuckled.

"Well isn't that so?" She pressed her untainted lips on his—the next round approaching. "Mine's red too—because of you." Vanessa's blue eyes locked with her lover's brown ones and he just gazed into hers in that way that melted her heart.

"Well, thank you for coming Mr. Chandler and thank you for making me _come_ as well." That was unprecedentedly, the finest thank you he'd ever received.

* * *

 **Feedback is love!**


	7. Part 7

Vanessa Ives arrived at home that evening around half-past seven. She kicked off her heals, zipped down her skirt and went straight for the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and sighed—there was nothing there she felt like eating. She opened the door to her small pantry and pulled out Zenobia's dog food, filling her bowl to the brim. Her old lady, as Vanessa affectionately referred to the dog, stood wagging her tail next to her. Vanessa petted her pointy German-Shepard ears.

"We should go for a walk tomorrow, Z."

Vanessa headed straight for the shower and after a few minutes, was out the door in a loose dark blue dress and comfortable leather moccasins. She had a large stack of student papers to read through and mark and also some lesson plans to finish—but against all tradition, she would work at her favorite café. The professor walked the few blocks without much of a care in the world—simply enjoying the cool breeze hitting her cheeks and hair. At home, Vanessa would never be able to concentrate, not when she could barely fight the urge to drown into her bed and into his delicious scent, still stuck to the sheets.

She could barely recognize herself amidst all of these... _feelings._

Vanessa entered the café and took a seat in her usual booth—Amir, by the look of his face was surprised and glad to see her. She smiled back at him.

"Ms. Ives, strange seeing you on a weekday! You disappeared, I was worried I would never see you again!" Vanessa smiled tenderly at his excitement. Before today, Vanessa had never really noticed how large and beautiful his brown eyes were and how Amir's long and thick dark eyelashes made his gaze almost irresistible.

"I was feeling ill Amir, that's why I didn't show up. Listen, today I have to work on these papers, but will you bring me your journal on Sunday—I'm sure you've written quite a bit already." Amir nodded eagerly.

"Yes, about me mostly. It feels good to write down my feelings. There's so much happening, you'll know what when you read."

"I'm looking forward to it, I really am. You'll do great things Amir, I can feel it—so don't you ever give up." Vanessa glanced at the white, balding man behind the counter glaring in their direction. "Mr. Sheridan's not pleased by our conversation—how can you stand him?" Amir shrugged.

"He's never pleased with anything, Miss. Would you like a coffee?" Amir had an amused grin on. Like an older sister, Vanessa wanted desperately to just ruffle his hair or pinch his cheek.

"Sure—Black and a turkey sandwich would be nice too."

"I'm on it." Vanessa patted Amir's arm and sighed. She hated seeing him upset.

…

Ethan sat on a park bench, not too far from his flat, just having finished his afternoon bike stroll. He regretted leaving Vanessa's side entirely today—but as adults living in this hectic world—they simply couldn't afford to stay in bed all day. Other than his thoughts of her, that never seemed to leave these days, he couldn't shake off his conversation with his brother over the phone. Michael had called to update Ethan on their father's health—which was apparently declining. Camille, Michael's wife and a doctor in her own right had gone so far as to advise Ethan to buy the first ticket to Albuquerque and say goodbye to the old man. Ethan had no interest in seeing his father, however. In fact, he'd given up on the dire old man many moons ago.

Deep within him though, for the first time in decades, a small spark of home came alight in his heart—maybe, just maybe, in his deathbed, Frank Lawrence Talbot, Ethan's father, would apologize for all of the pain he'd caused and finally say, "I'm proud of you, boy." Ethan shook off the sentimental and utterly ridiculous thought—laughing dryly at himself. He climbed onto his bike again, heading for home and straight for his shower.

…

About two hours passed and the Olympia Café and Bookstore was closing for the night. Vanessa was proud of herself for managing to mark half of what she brought. Tomorrow night, hopefully after a nice glass of wine she would be able to finish. She carefully slipped all of the papers inside their folders and into her messenger bag, paid her bill and waved goodbye to Amir, he himself hopping onto his bike. As she was about to go out the door, she caught eye of Mr. Sheridan approaching her, not looking at all pleased.

"Ms. Ives, do you have a minute?" Vanessa nodded and let go of the door handle. "Your conversations with Amir about what I don't know have become intolerable. He no longer does his work properly and is always distracted by the books and making friendships. He's a waiter, Ms. Ives, not one of your boyfriends or whatever. He's meant to serve my customers and not go about debating poetry and writing nonsense in a journal."

"I completely regret that a man such as yourself who owns such an exceptional business will have no vision whatsoever!" Vanessa was furious at the man's remarks. She would not allow for someone to threaten her friendship with Amir, or punish the young man for simply having talents. "Amir is too good to be simply serving coffee all day, Mr. Sheridan, he has a lot of potential. Instead of being so thick-headed and reprimanding him for improving himself, you should give him a chance." Mr. Sheridan frowned deeply and crossed his arms defensively. "Put him in the book sales division, you'll see how your profits will improve. People come here not just for the establishment or the good food, they come for that boy—the good conversation he offers, the debates they can partake with him, his vast literary knowledge. That's the type of things that as an entrepreneur you should be taking advantage of. This is a place for reading and for leisure, is it not?" The bald man was speechless. "You know I'm right, Mr. Sheridan, I know you do. Sleep on it and invest in the boy."

"But he's _poor_ and _brown_!"

"Wasn't Jesus?" Vanessa replied with knitted brows. She then came to realize that if Amir were any other white, British boy, Mr. Sheridan probably would have no problem with him. The real dilemma was the business-owner's discrimination of him. "Have a good evening, Mr. Sheridan."

Vanessa walked away fuming. How she wished she could have said more—defended her friend better. She also hoped that her passionate words hadn't threatened Amir's much needed job.

…

Vanessa's thoughts on the well-being of Amir's job conflicted and without realizing, her feet took her to the very building of her beloved Mr. Cowboy. She sighed and rung the bell to his flat—perhaps he could shed her some light, calm her nerves. She climbed each step of the spiraling stairs as if repenting—now that she was here, would he think her too eager?

"Well if it isn't _my_ Loch _Ness_ Monster…" She heard him say with a tender smile, greeting her clad in old sweat pants and a Bob Dylan t-shirt from his door. She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. Ethan noticed this, her tension, and before he let her in, gently held her by the shoulders and placed a loving kiss to her forehead… and then another to her lips. "I'm surprised to see you here, Vanessa." She couldn't help leaning into his arms and allowing him to embrace her—tight, warm and protective.

"I think that I may just have screwed up—big time—as you Americans often say." Ethan guided her inside his home and Vanessa was astounded to see that there were significantly less cardboard boxes. His walls were now covered with posters of his favorite jazz bands and here and there were photographs of people she assumed were his friends and family.

She made herself comfortable on his sofa while he brought out a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses. As he sat, urging her to tell him what happened; she tucked her cold feet beneath his thighs and narrated the unpleasant conversation with Mr. Sheridan. Ethan listened intently, his hands rubbing her leg soothingly, up and down.

"God I really need a smoke..." She sighed, leaning her head on the back of the cushion. His fingers, although a bit rough and calloused, were soft and soothing, touching and caressing her skin.

"Don't we all, darlin'?" Ethan re-filled their glasses. "I'm in a bit of a dilemma myself—my old man's dying." Her eyes immediately met with his, it was almost electrifying, but really, what he saw in them was affection and concern.

"Oh, Ethan, I'm so sorry to hear that..." He shook his head, eyebrows knitting and a deep frown forming.

"I'm afraid to say that I'm not sorry at all—he dedicated his life to making my mother, brother and I miserable. He would drink and trash the entire house—he slept around which broke her heart, he would hit and hit and hit my brother and I... We didn't exactly have a happy home. My mom one day packed us up while he was out on a business trip to Texas, she sought refuge at a place called a 'hope house'-that's where mothers and children who suffer abuse go... When he got back he searched for us high and low. He found her walking out of her divorce lawyer's office one morning and dragged her by the hair into his car." Ethan had tears pooling in his eyes as he said this. "He raped her right then and there, beat the crap out of her. Less than a week later she was dead from blood hemorrhage and we were back with him."

Vanessa didn't know what to say. She felt insignificant though, as if her lifelong struggles were nothing next to what Ethan's father had put them through. At least Malcolm had never been violent, had never physically hurt Vanessa or her mother. She felt like crying too, just imagining Ethan's pain—she felt like crying and speaking to her father. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her cowboy and tried to soothe him as best as she could.

She allowed for him to lie on top of her, his head resting on her heart. Her fingers played softly with his longer and silky hair, playing at the nape of his neck, wandering down his back. This had probably been the best thing she did today—his sighs of pleasure and satisfaction were enough to calm her too. A little bit of loving never failed. It was a thing Vanessa had gotten from her mother, who was known to stay up at night, soothing her daughter, nails gently touching the naked skin of her back, delicious goose bumps arising, until she fell asleep.

"Hmm—I think we should head for the bed before I sleep on you." He mumbled and Vanessa couldn't help but smile at the cuteness of him. And cute wasn't a word she often used in her vocabulary.

Needless to say that had been their very first night spent together—and it hadn't been as sexy or pretty as Vanessa had envisioned while daydreaming about Mr. Cowboy in her office. It had been perfect though, because Vanessa now knew that this man, he didn't play tough or macho—he had feelings and pains of his own—he was as lonely as she was in this world and maybe, just maybe, Vanessa Ives had found her equal.

As they lay on his bed, facing each other, his hands gently tucking her hair behind her ear, both in the utmost comfortable silence, Ethan caressed her cheek with the back of his finger and brought his lips to hers.

"'Nessa, I'm really glad you're here."

…

Friday morning and a scheming pair of dark eyes followed every movement of the woman wearing a black skirt and sweater that had just passed her by. The long brown hairs were tied in a French braid and on her feet, elegant red heals. From simply watching the way she walked, she knew very well that the woman, the object of her attention, had been made love to.

Things were shifting in the world of Professor Vanessa Ives—and she absolutely hated it, because it very well meant that she would have to change her entire approach.

"Ms. Poole! Ms. Poole!" She fought the urge to roll her eyes at the sound of the very much effeminate dean of the History department—Professor Ferdinand Lyle called out for her. "My darling, Ms. Poole, how are you today?"

"Quite well, thank you, sir. And you?" He batted his eyelashes and smiled, his cheeks as always tainted in rose.

"Just wonderful. Professor Ives is ready to meet you, I have filled her in with all of your exceptional credentials and the nature of your past and present researches—she is very glad to have you as her assistant."

"Well, professor, I'm honored to be hers as well." He walked down the corridors towards Professor Ives' office, Lyle filling her with meaningless small talk and uninteresting staff rumors. She simply nodded away and feigned amusement, although in her mind, she tried to think of Vanessa's true feelings and reactions on having an assistant. She would have to tread very carefully—she would have to gain her new boss' trust.

The office doors were wide open and Vanessa was inside on the phone, standing in front of the wooden-cased window that looked out to the perfectly manicured campus grounds and gardens—her back to the door.

"All right, all right—I don't mind rescheduling at all—it's important that you go. I'll see you next Sunday then?" Even though Ms. Poole couldn't see the expression on the woman's face, she knew very well that a smile was there—the joys of new romance. "Take care, though. If you need anything, just call me. _Me too_ , Bye." A new romance it was for there were no 'I love you's' or 'kisses' or any of that. That phase of a new relationship where you simply did not know how to label it.

But nevertheless, it was an emotional weakness—and Ms. Poole vowed to take advantage of it.

Vanessa turned around and smiled upon seeing Professor Lyle. They were good friends, everyone knew.

"My dearest, this is Ms. Hecate Poole—she shall be your new assistant." Vanessa nodded and smiled—it didn't quite reach her eyes. Still, always the lady, she extended her hand for Hecate to shake and the younger woman smiled as well.

"I've heard a lot about you, Ms. Poole, you have such a terrific resumé that I'm surprised you're even applying for a simple assistant position."

"Well—before adventuring myself into teaching, I wish to gain a bit more experience and honestly, it's such an amazing honor to be your employee, Professor—I remember seeing one of your presentations in Dublin and being completely amazed by your research and field work—it inspired me to delve into the fields of women's history as well."

"I see, well it's good to have you on board. Monday I shall be making a trip to the west country moors for some field work—would you like to accompany me then?"

Mr. Lyle was pleased to see that his shining star of a professor was getting along just fine with his chosen employee for her and excused himself out of the office to allow them to talk and get to know each other.

"Oh, I would love to!" Hecate Poole knew exactly what waited for her at the moors. She would find a way to go around this mess. She couldn't leave London just yet.

"Your name, Hecate, it's like your parents knew you'd be destined to study witches." Hecate laughed and faked a smile.

"It was also a great source of embarrassment growing up."

"Well, it's a strong and powerful name—suits you."

…

Sembene watched with hawk-like eyes as Sir Malcolm Murray once again left home perfumed and dressed to the nines on that Friday evening. There was a woman in the whole story, Sembene was certain—he didn't like it one bit. Malcolm was more cocky and authoritative than usual. He would sleep until late and drink himself to bed. The vain old man would now even disappear for two or three days straight—it wasn't normal behavior for him—never was.

The biggest change that Sembene could see was in the look of his master's eyes, the color of them. Blue-gray eyes were gradually darkening; they were now a cold graffiti.

Once his master left and he was all alone in the large townhouse, Sembene pulled out his barely ever touched cellular phone and dialed a number. This was not the type of war that one fought alone.


	8. Part 8

**I had a bit of trouble writing this chapter, just figuring out where to take this story. I promise we'll have some answers next chapter! I apologize for the delay in updating, life's sure been hectic, but I do hope you like this one. I would also like to thank every single reader for simply reading this and sending me feedback so far.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

He'd invited Vanessa rather sheepishly over the phone to accompany him to Heathrow International Airport. Vanessa had had to excuse herself from her students, right in the middle of a class. Ethan Chandler had never cared much for goodbyes and was never really the cheesy, overly romantic type, however with her it was different—all he wanted was to see her one last time before he embarked—to feel the security of her embrace and take a good look at that beautiful face, that enchanting, child-like smile. God he would miss her—they barely knew each other and, and this… Ethan couldn't properly explain it—how there was nothing in the world quite like burying his face in the crook of her neck, hiding himself from the world from behind Ms. Vanessa Ives' thick and dark curtains of hair. There was nothing like the feel of her soft, pale skin as he kissed her in that spot below her ear, the shivers that it would elicit from her—her raspy laughter and the way she would through her head back and her eyes would close in equal parts pleasure and ticklishness, crinkling in the corners.

"Dinner at six and then we rush for the airport at nine?" He'd offered and he could barely contain his anxiety as he waited for her response.

"All right, I'll meet you at the _Londrina Trattoria_ after work. You eat Italian, don't you?" Vanessa asked in whispers.

"I love Italian."

" _Good—and Mr. Cowboy—I'll miss having you around._ "

"Hey—it's just for a week—I'll visit my dad and spend a few days with my brother and his family in New Orleans. You'll be okay, won't you?"

" _Probably—I have to go, see you then._ "

"See you, pretty lady." Vanessa chuckled and hung up on him—hurrying back to her waiting students.

Disguised amid the mahogany wood-paneled walls of the university—Hecate Poole smiled at the small conversation she witnessed—it was a great thing that she too loved Italian.

…

As Vanessa arrived at the trattoria, over twenty minutes late because of the heavy rains that had caused traffic from the campus grounds here, she caught sight of him from across the room, sipping a glass of wine, his right foot tapping the floor incessantly in an obvious show of anxiety. She smiled at this—at these utterly boyish ways that on a man like him— tall, strong, just below forty and with a lovely head of honey-colored hair— were ever so charming. He wore his glasses tonight, the ones with wide lenses and nerdish black frame, but that she loved on him. He imagined the two of them sitting on her bed on a lazy Friday night, her naked legs thrown across his thighs, he reading to her a book of his liking, with that cowboy accent of his that dragged on at a few words—his deep voice a deep tone for each and every character that dialogued. She would sigh and rest her head on his arm, her skin warm and her body and soul completely relaxed.

Vanessa wanted this with him— _to cuddle in bed_ —to be held, to be loved beyond just the love making. She desired it seemed what every woman who quite possibly fed on romantic comedies desired—a perfect man of her own. But perhaps, her Mr. Cowboy was even better, with his troubled past and calloused hands—with his easy smiles and those charming dimples that appeared when he laughed and was happy—truly happy.

She made way for the table, her hair probably a messy and damp pile on her head, her coat drenched with rain and her skirt wrinkled after a long day at work. As Ethan saw her—ever the gentleman, he got up and pulled the chair out for her, not without first removing Vanessa's coat and placing a soft kiss on her lips.

"Have I ever seen you more beautiful, Professor Ives?" Vanessa smiled at the silly remark and signaled for the waiter herself. Her eyes locked with Ethan's and so did their hands touch from across the table. At this point they were just being ridiculous, like a couple of teenagers who can't manage to keep their hands to themselves. Vanessa can barely even remember the last time she had felt this way...

"Quite possibly. Where do you plan on going all posh and dressed up, Mr. Chandler?" Vanessa questioned teasingly, her blue eyes shining in childlike delight, as she simultaneously showed the waiter her exact favorite dish on the menu, which, of course, she already knew by heart. Ethan would have the same-the classic _spaghetti al ragù_.

"Well, more like warm and effortlessly classy... and you know, in a little while I'll be on a plane headed for the lovely state of New Mexico." Vanessa smiled at this. _Effortlessly classy_. That was something that would better and normally describe her—not him. But she did appreciate his dressing up for her own sake—the lovely son of a bastard. His smile and his small touches, they all made her go weak on the knees. It was an amazing feat that she was so good at hiding it in her semblant.

As they enjoyed their candle-lit meal and the 1960's Italian standards that played in the background of the restaurant—Ms. Vanessa Ives and Mr. Ethan Chandler had no idea, that a lot more time than they imagined would pass before once again they would see each other—not when on the other side of the ocean, there was business to be dealt with—not when on this side there was serious business to be dealt with in the professor's life. Things to uncover, things to control, to solve. That _thing_ within her.

 _But true love waits, as long as it takes._

They sat and dined there at the small and quaint little restaurant, rustic stone walls and arches-as if they were in a warm little cave, captured in their little bubble of young love, oblivious to the dark eyes that from the outside of the establishment, watched them continuously from through the wide glass windows.

…

Their goodbye kiss lingered on her lips as she watched him leave from the gray-tinted glass that separated her from the boarding room. She felt as if an essential part of her was suddenly missing, as silly or cliché as that may sound. Vanessa felt a deep sense of loss and a hopeless desire for him to turn around and forgive all of the convincing she had done—for him to change his mind and come home with her and never again leave her side. Ten or fifteen minutes passed as she stood there, grieving her loss of him.

Vanessa slowly walked away once Ethan was no longer in sight, towards her car and headed for home. She had never been more aware of those voices and scratches from deep within her—the very ones that seemed to disappear when she was in her beloved Mr. Cowboy's company. Vanessa felt it as it all intensified and she felt worsen, causing her great feeling of nausea to become almost unbearable as at precisely eleven she arrived at the front door of her flat.

...

An imaginary cacophony incessantly ringed in her ears and the pain was too strong. Soon Vanessa wasn't herself anymore—her body contorting in impossible angles and with a near deadly intensity. _Everything went black._

...

A cloaked woman and then a second appeared from the shadows—the dog barked frenetically from the inside of the apartment, sensing her human's danger. The young man, Amir, who carried under his arm protected inside a common plastic bag, his precious leather journal, hid from behind the emergency stairs wall—gift that the woman lying there helpless on the floor had given him. His only friend was in danger. He watched intently as the women cut off large chunks of her hair while whispering in a snake-like way words in a language not English, not Arabic, not anything he had ever heard in his life. The women savagely pulled out a few nails and slit a large cut on her wrist, the fresh and warm blood trickling down and inside a strange looking container. So much blood... They left as quietly as they came—and he desperatelt hoped, without having seen him.

Amir searched frantically through Ms. Ives' purse for her keys and upon finding them unlocked the door to her apartment, carrying her inside and gently laying her on the sofa. He searched her side table drawer for a phone number, anyone he could call for help. No doctor would ever believe in what Amir saw—no doctor would ever believe that this woman, unconscious, was Amir's friend and he had caused her no harm. His hands trembled in fear-for her and for himself. Upon finding a piece of paper with the word _dad_ , he dialled the number. He hoped to the heavens that everything would be all right.

…

His first thought as he awoke that morning was of her—laughing at a silly joke he'd been telling as they sat lazily in her kitchen, around the wooden table, her toes dangling above the floors, a cup of steaming coffee nestled in her hands, the rosy hue of her cheeks and the rebellious strands of dark hair that falling from her bun.

Ethan Chandler had been on American soil for two days now and despite his joy of visiting his brother Michael and playing around with his niece and nephew, he longed for London, just to be with her-his woman in red. It had been Madeline, his sister-in-law who had pointed it out to him, over a very American dinner of salad and pepperoni pizza. He'd enjoyed a couple of Belgian beers with his thw couple, while the children played around and quarreled in the background. This was where Ethan suddenly realized that perhaps one day he would like to have a life such as this one, similar to Michael and Madeline's. A quaint little life in a large and spacious, brand-new house—happy and healthy children—maybe an entire zoo of pets—waking up with the woman he most loved in the world every morning; and every single day, having the opportunity to make her smile and laugh. The only woman he could ever imagine joining him in this romanticized story was her—with her big blue eyes and red, red lips. _Vanessa Ives_.

"You know what I think is going on, Ethan?" He shook his head as Madeline poked him with her elbow, smiling knowingly. Madeline was the older sister he'd never had. " I think you're in love with this woman, Vanessa, and I think she's made you fall in love with being in London. I mean, you might even be happy for a few days here with us, but let's be honest, the first few months of a relationship are the best—the best sex, the best kisses, the best conversations, the best everything. I wouldn't want to stay a minute longer here if I were you."

And Ethan wouldn't say a word because he knew it was the absolute truth. And Michael and Madeline would then rejoice in making fun of him all through the night and making silly remarks and provocations, asking about how he and Vanessa were together—joking about his lovey-dovey feelings—and as his mind slightly buzzed after the few drinks they had, Ethan would mock himself.

...

Tomorrow morning, a Sunday, would be the day to visit his father at the hospital; the day for Ethan Chandler to quite possibly attempt at saying goodbye and the day to try and forgive. And then their bags would all be packed and they would be heading back to the place that actually felt like home— _New Orleans_ —where the three adults would venture themselves back to the old venues of their golden days of responsibility-free youth and the children would go to school and afterwards stay with Madeline's parents. Somehow, more than ever, Ethan felt a very strong pull to get there, to New Orleans, as fast as he could. There was something—he didn't know what—waiting for him there.

…

Another three days had passed since Sir Malcolm Murray last stepped foot in his own house and Sembene, his ever faithful companion and butler, was beyond concerned and impatient. It had also been three full days since he'd telephoned her in Egypt—the only woman Sembene knew who could break the terrible love enchantment that had been cast upon his master. Dr. Miriam Azima—the woman Indiana Jones as Sir Malcolm would jokingly introduce her in his social circles—despite the fact that she absolutely hated it.

She was a strong-willed and persistent woman, who Sembene with his years and all of the things he had lived and seen in this life, knew loved the stubborn English lord. If not Miriam, who would help? Vanessa in all the years he'd known her—from the time she transitioned from an awkward little girl to a quiet and somber adolescent—Sembene had never known her to break a promise.

The black-eyed woman who seduced his master through his own vanity was a cold, small thing. She had charming dark curls of hair that much resembled those of the late Claire Ives and carried herself elegantly as if she were of the highest rank of royalty. Her clothing was always dark and her legs always covered by black or beige tights, she wore bright red lipstick and her voice, was an enticing, haunting and deep tone—that could render won completely and utterly powerless in desire.

She would always appear during the day and wore several large silver and lapis-lazuli rings on her fingers—Sembene imagined the precious stone could be the one of her birth—stones had great power in linking Earth and men and each stone was known to have its own special properties.

Sembene knew the perfidious and deceitful likes of her—women who were like her. Many had he witnessed from afar carrying large and heavy velvet cloaks around them, walking across the harsh warm deserts of Mauritania and northern Africa as if totally immune to the weather and sand storms—and all the while the dark spirits that would roam and be free at night would wrap them in an invisible, but protected sort of cloud and like a dream they would disappear through thin air—leaving only death and destruction behind them. This was how numerous villages near that of Sembene had been ruined—almost all of their inhabitants horrifically and mysteriously murdered. And this was how century old feuds were brought about and how brothers and sisters of the same Earth in acts of hunger, rage and despair, would hurt and slaughter each other—until only cadavers were left, preyed by the hungry eyes of midnight crows—the few survivors left alone in the world singing the songs of their damnation and of a once content past.

Something told Sembene that neither tonight or tomorrow Sir Malcolm would return and if he wanted to truly protect his only friend in this world—he would have to find a way to bring back the doe-eyed Persian archeologist.

He then heard knock after knock on the front door and on his usual blank face, as he opened the damned thing—was an expression of pure and utter joy and relief. There standing before him, soaking wet in rain in a dark green rain jacket, was Miriam Azima herself—stripped away of all pride, carrying nothing but a small purse—plump lips trembling from the cold.

"Sembene, I'm here, what should we do?" She spoke to him in perfect Arabic.ic.


	9. Part 9

Amir's hands shook erratically as he held the phone on his ear listening to the rings for the third consecutive time, having dialled the number from the small piece of paper. Tears streamed down his cheeks, both terrified for Ms. Ives' well-being and scared also for his own. The young man released a large sigh of relief as he heard a barely audible _hello_ on the other end, the low timbre of a man's voice.

"H-hello, I am Amir, I'm Vanessa Ives' friend. I am at her home right now and please, please come quickly! They attacked and hurt her and she's bleeding and I don't know what to do. Please come quick— _please!_ " The person on the other end simply muttered _"I'll be there"_ and the line went dead. Amir searched for the kitchen in order to find cloths that he could use to stop the hemorrage. To be quite honest this was the last thing he'd expected to find on this evening—his friend nearly dying by the hand of creepy cloaked women and a storm outside. The leather bound journal lay abandoned on the floor next to her apartment door, but at this point, Amir could care less about writing or his problems back home—he needed help to come for this woman and very, very soon.

He sat on the corner of her wooden coffee table holding the cloths against the ugly gash on her head, preventing any more blood from escaping it. He tried not to think much of the large amounts of blood that had drenched her hair and stained her blouse and jacket—the thick red contents drying on her forhead, cheeks and neck, her breathing so shallow and her skin paler than per usual.

"Oh Ms. Ives, who were those women? Why would anyone want to harm you?" He asked, his voice hitching and sobs escaping his trembling lips. Tears once again pooled in Amir's big brown eyes and he had never been so afraid in his life.

Not too long after, he heard a heavy pair of steps echo from the hall towards the front door, almost knocking it over. A large dark-skinned man with strange scars on his face appeared. His expression was of austerity, but from the way his hands held tightly onto the knob of the door and his eyes shone in sorrowful recognition at the woman laying on the sofa, Amir somehow knew he meant no harm. But he wasn't Ms. Ives' father either, as Amir had been expecting. In a few seconds, almost out of nowhere, a woman no older than forty appeared at the door. She was petite with a lovely olive-skinned complexion and black hair like a moonless night. Her eyes were like giant blackberries and her nose was characteristically Arabic, in fact, Amir could've swore he heard her mutter a prayer to Allah under her breath, than rushing towards the young professor's side.

"Who are you?" Amir asked as Miriam rolled up her sleeves and went straight to assessing Vanessa's wounds.

"Miriam Azima—I'm her best friend." She said, not even taking the time to look at the young man's face. "I need you to go get us another clean hand towel and douse it into some alcohol, I'm stitching this up. I'm not that sort of doctor, but how hard can it be?" She looked at the man, who in few minutes had been able to locate needles and thread. Amir rushed to do as told, finding a bottle of alcohol as the woman instructed, under Vanessa's kitchen sink.

Two hours later Vanessa had been moved to her bed by the man, Sembene, and Miriam for a longtime had stayed inside with her friend, removing her filthy clothing and cleaning her with a washing cloth. Miriam washed the blood out of Vanessa's hair, not being able to hold back tears herself, as she saw first hand the physical damage they had done to her closest friend. The cut hair, the finger nails that had been brutally pulled out, the scratches, bruises, stitches on her head. This had been Miriam's greatest fear upon leaving for Egypt months ago—that Vanessa wouldn't be able to restrain the monster that was constantly within her, that she would let her guards down—which she had, no doubt, and that this would ultimately kill her… Well it hadn't, more than anything this sudden attack had been a dreadful warning, but now Vanessa couldn't afford to be alone—she needed to leave everything behind for just a little while and go back to the old witch at the moors. Vanessa needed more than ever, to learn how to use her abilities.

Miriam stared at her for a long time. The hours and hours worth of flights and waiting at airports, the jet lag and all of this stress—Malcolm, Vanessa, her beaten heart, all of it simply too hard to bare. She lay her head on the pillow next to Vanessa and closed her eyes just for a moment… she wouldn't take too long. Her body ached from exhaustion, especially her feet and back. She hummed in pure contentment as the soft pillow nested her and sleep was too hard to fight off. Outside of the large bedroom windows, the sun rose, bringing with it a brand new day to come.

…

She greeted her girlies with a large smile, dark, dark eyes glimmering in merriment and wickedness. She lay her soft hands onto the redhead's cheeks and pressed her lips to hers in appraisal. They had succeeded, her treasured darklings.

There, as if precious artifacts, lay her hair, nails and blood, each in their own little recipient. She let out a laugh of victory, her fingers touching adoringly, the soft brown chunk of hair that had been brought to her all the ingredients she had needed to taunt and torture the bastard little whore. Had she had fun with her worthless little American boyfriend? Had she laughed and cried out in pleasure as they fucked on top of her pristine white sheets? Had Vanessa Ives taken pleasure in his soft lips and warm tongue… on her mouth, throughout her body? She had made it her mission that those would be the last of the Ives girl's moments of happiness. Because there was a war to fight and it was long, very long overdue.

Sitting alone just in her silk black robe, in her parlor, staring into the fire and simply imagining the writhing, suffering, burning flesh of those sisters who she utmost despised—in came Hecate in casual attire, dark hair piled on top of her head, lips red and curved in a provocative smirk.

"Daughter of mine, finally you have arrived. _Professor Ives_ as you must know already has been warned and made herself useful to us. Quite honestly, I expected a fight from her end, but no… Seems as though that horrendous sister of mine has taught her nothing—nothing and it seems to me my dear, that we will have a successful victory on her." Hecate scoffed at this and sat across from her mother, head shaking in denial.

"I wouldn't underestimate her, mother—not just yet. Not when love is no longer on her side."

"Whatever do you mean, my child?"

"Her American has bid her goodbye today and has left undefinitely for his homeland."

"Then you must my darling, be a friend to our poor and heartbroken professor… Poor thing, in such need of a comforting friend." Her voice was pure and disdainful mockery and mother and daughter shared that dark and sceming glimmer in their respective eyes. "And don't get too carried away daughter, forget not that we are the rightful heirs and sovereigns of the gemini coven—we shall rule again, we shall be a force to reckon with—again."

…

Morning came and Miriam awoke to shifting next to her on the bed. Upon opening her eyes she saw that Vanessa attempted to rise from her bed, finding that he head probably ached terribly and so did her fingers. And then she heard it, a deep gutural sob escape Vanessa's lips as she slowly came to realize what had happened.

 _"_ _Oh God! Oh God, no!"_ She repeated as she buried her head in her hands, purposefully not touching where the stitches were. Miriam was quick to wrap her friend into her embrace from behind and hold her as she cried. Vanessa wasn't the type to expose her vulnerabilities and Miriam could imagine how downright difficult this could be.

"It's all right, Vanessa, it's all right. Whoever they are, they wont be able to get to you—there's not any other woman I know who is stronger than you." But Miriam's words of motivation seemed to elicite a positive reaction and Vanessa fought to escape her soothing arms.

"No! For fuck's sake it is not all right, it's not." Vanessa rose from the bed and stood in the middle of her room finding herself under too much pain to be able to move and walk probably.

"I think you may have broken a rib… Your friend Amir saw you falling and being kicked at last night in your hall. He's outside of this room right now, he and Sembene, your friends, worried sick about you. I'm here Vanessa. So please, please sit on this goddamn bed and let me fix that rat's nest that is your hair now." Miriam's tone of voice was stern and imperious and muchlike a mother's scolding. Without the energy to fight back, Vanessa sat instead on a wooden stool that she would normally leave next to her wardrobe. Miriam pulled the mirror in front of Vanessa who's eyes filled with tears upon seeing her own reflection. She took out the scissors she had found last night upon treating Vanessa's wounds. And went about cutting the very uneven ends of her hair. Vanessa cried unconsolably, as if along with her hair, her pride, her strength and her whole being had fallen to the ground along with it.

"Oh sweetheart, it's just hair, it'll grow back…" Miriam cooed and Vanessa shook her head.

"It's not just that."

…

Later that morning Sembene had carried a now shorthaired Vanessa into the living room where her dog and cat lay obediently at her side and feet, as if sensing her deep sorrow. Every few minutes her blue eyes would diverge to her phone, wishing, hoping, internally begging for him to call. Surely he would have arrived by now.

Sembene had overuled her kitchen and baked her an entire buttercream torte. Miriam every few hours fed her painkillers and from time to time caressed her friend's shoulders and back, also running her soft fingers through Vanessa's trimmed curls. And Amir, bless his precious soul would try to distract her with the wondeful tales he had written in his journal and also ones he would invent out of nowhere. Vanessa couldn't help but wonder if he shouldn't be elsewhere, at home or at work, anywhere but here—but she was thankful, truly thankful that he wasn't.

As night soon arrived, with it came the three loud rings of her intercom. Five minutes later a huffing Joan Clayton passed through Vanessa's door ordering Miriam to pack her clothes and essentials, Sembene to fix them a few snacks for the road and Amir to keep an eye on the apartment and animals while she and Vanessa took a little trip to the demimonde.

"Honestly child, have you learned nothing at all?"

"I would perhaps if you wouldn't be so cryptic about all of this occultism and spiritual shit." Joan rolled her eyes and huffed for the millionth time the entire car ride in her old chevy truck.

"This spiritual and occultism shit, as you put it… it's a blasted 130 year old war that's what."

"A war?"

"That's right, _miss I have a doctor's degree_." Joan said in a sarcastic and mockery tone. "I hope to God you realize you're a witch Vanessa."

"And what now?"

" _And now?_ We must prepare for bettle, my little Scorpion."


	10. Chapter 10

He walked through the whitewashed corridors of the giant hospital building. Nurses, doctors, patients and their loved ones filling the eerily quiet halls and walking back and forth. He hated the bright led lighting that hurt his eyes and the strong scent of chloral. It reminded him far too much of when his mother died—two whole days waiting in a hospital. Social services at one end, straight-faced doctors at another and the cold brown eyes of his father, gazing at his young boy's form menacingly. All he ever knew his father to be was a threat. And here he was, standing in front of room 35D, an aqua colored door separating him from the helpless and dying form of his father on the other side.

It felt all too much like a dream—a very vivid hallucination. Perhaps if he opened his eyes from this nightmare, he would be back in London, laying on a large and comfortable bed, with the woman he most desired right beside him. He had tried to call, but it had not worked a single time. Ethan hoped to God that Vanessa would see the emails he had sent her and the whatsapp messages... although she was never attentive to those. Vanessa was one of those rare antiquated souls who despised the very sound of a phone beeping. She had probably arrived from work and forgotten to take it out of her purse or maybe she'd simply neglected to charge the thing as had happened many other times.

Ethan wished he could hear her calm and soothing voice, whispering pretty words into his ear and filling him with a confidence that right now escaped him. She hoped that right now she would be at home, curled up with a book so old the pages were yellow and almost coming off, a mug of warm coffee—tea was far too weak for her taste—and her cat and dog curled at her feet. She hoped she was all right, because whenever his thoughts reverted to her, he would feel a tightness in his chest as if he could possibly be sensing a pain that she was experiencing. It was all very silly of him—they'd been seeing each other for little more than a month. It felt like much longer, much, much longer. But it felt amazing, right, and far more intense than any other relationship he had ever experienced.

Nevertheless, he was standing here and stalling. The eyes of the passersby burned through his skull and eyed him in a mix of curiosity and irritation, probably asking themselves 'who is this idiot, staring at some random door as if it were seven-headed, fire-spitting monster?' Well, this idiot was a man of nearly forty who all his life had suffered at the hands and expense of the man on the other side—a man responsible for the visible scars on Ethan's back and many others on his heart; a man who had taken away this idiot's mother in the most vile and brutal of ways. A man who had been abusive, physically and psychologically, a man enslaved by the bottle, the gun, the belt and the cash. A man who in his prime had been involved in so much shady business and caused so much damage... to Ethan, to Michael, to his wife, to people who didn't even know him personally.

And, as he thought of these things and angry tears began to pool in his eyes, Ethan Chandler took hold of the door handle and turned it, pushing the door open. Inside, four white windows enclosed a small room with a single hospital bed. Na uncomfortable chair sat in a corner, by a floor lamp, empty. On the bed surrounded by beeping monitors and plugged into several wires was the frail and almost unrecognizable figure of Francis Talbot, or Frank as he usually went by. A long time ago, a nineteen-year-old Ethan had decided to take his mother's maiden name instead, followed by his older brother. He had wanted nothing to do with this balding, gray haired man, eyes closed and color completely washed off his cheeks. He had recently become an adult, free of him, and planned to live his life to the fullest and never look back. Yet, here he was, in Albuquerque all over again.

Ethan took a few steps closer and held on firmly to the rails of the bed—taking in the image of this man, his father, so thin, so fragile... a shadow of who he once was. He couldn't describe his feelings exactly—disbelief, pity, victory? No, Ethan felt absolute nothing. This was no longer the man he had for so long hated, the man who in his mind towered over him in the most intimidating of ways.

Lost in his thoughts, the cold and almost lifeless hand of the man had moved to cover his. Ethan's brown eyes locked with those of the older man and the intense anger and agony that stared back at him was the rawest thing he had ever witnessed. Tears pooled the old man's eyes and his eyebrows creased. His lips were in a stern, straight line. Ethan could tell his father was internally battling himself—for perhaps the last time, trying to be the stronger, emotionless one.

"You really are your mother's son," He snarled in distaste. "I couldn't have taught ya even if I wanted to—I sure tried as hell to make you into a man. She did bad to you, Ethan; she turned you into some weak, dumbass, _and sensitive writer_." Ethan paid no mind to his hateful words, the bitter words of a dying, failing, losing man. " _Julia_ screamed so much Ethan—I wish you could have _heard_ her better…" Ethan held on to the railings even harder, his knuckles turning white.

"Don't you _dare_ pronounce her name—don't you dare say my mother's name!" He growled, dark eyes burning holes into those of his father's. Perhaps Frank Talbot had never seen his son so angry, so little afraid of him. It was failure for the old man indeed.

" _Ha!_ So you decided to man up, did you boy? Ya know, I'm gonna die soon Ethan, and I know I'm goin' straight to hell. You wanna know somethin' else that I know?" At this point Ethan just shook his head cursing himself for coming here in the first place, pacing the ceramic floors of the room. "That your mother was a freakin' cunt, a freakin' dumbass fuckin' _witch_. You better go to New Orleans, Ethan. That's the fuckin' place you gotta be. You go to New Orleans, boy, and you'll figure yourself and your _mama dear_ out."

The following morning Frank Talbot died. Ethan hadn't even bothered to attend the funeral. He said goodbye to his brother, Madeline and his niece and nephew. All five of them were dressed in black, but none were exactly mourning. Ethan climbed onto an airplane towards New Orleans, a day ahead of them—the last words his father had spat to him, echoing in his mind. Vanessa, curious as she was, would have urged him to go and so, he did.

Ethan knew not where to look or what to expect, all he knew was that New Orleans for a while now, had been pulling him towards it, like a very strong magnet in a _Tom and Jerry_ cartoon. Ethan wanted to know, he needed to know, the story of his mother—and therefor of his life. So like with a book that he would sit and write, Ethan Chandler would embark on a long, tortuous journey—with hopes of a happy ending—an ending that hopefully would take him back to the city of London, where once again the woman in red who he oh-so desired would be in his arms.

…

The famous Bourbon Street in New Orleans was just as he remembered. Crowded with partying locals and wide-eyed tourists—music playing inside the clubs and bars—the jazz that Ethan loved—the French colonial buildings with those lovely iron railings that looked much more like delicate lace. It thrilled him, this place, at times, he would look around and feel himself twenty-two again, enraptured by the notion of happiness, which he sought in an unholy amount of liquor, all of the nameless women he had fucked, all of the bloody fights he had won, the drugs he had sniffed and injected… Now, sober, older—Bourbon street felt almost alien—a place of dreams and nightmares where in reality, he had never stepped foot in.

He entered what used to be his regular bar, slightly dark, woody and leathery inside—a smell of mentholated cigarettes and the finest Scottish whiskey in town. Pool tables had men standing and playing around them—in the booths groups of young people, most likely students, a couple or two and always, always the loners at the bar. For a moment he lit up at the sight of the now graying Elaine—the lady who for as long as Ethan could remember worked behind the bar and concocted some of the finest drinks he'd ever tasted. Her cat-like amber eyes lit up as she saw him. As always, her clothing was borderline exotic—a mix of silk Indian tunics, with large earrings encrusted with turquoise stones and tiny opals, fingers full of the largest and strangest of rings—one had always been particularly interesting, containing a preserved tiny spider within it's clear green crystal; her long nails were painted black. Elaine's lips were a deep red and there were much more lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth than Ethan had remembered. Her hands, he noticed, as she manipulated the drinks, were still steady as ever and you never really saw Elaine throwing back a drink herself. And what always, always surprised him; her eyes never stopped keeping vigil.

She was a witch, everyone liked to say, although half in jest and half in fear. She wasn't much of a talker, but could many times be stern and intimidating—but always sincere and unafraid to speak her mind. Probably that's why her clients barely ever raised their eyes to meet hers; she could read everyone like a book.

"Ethan!" She exclaimed with a large smile as she took a white dishcloth and dried the insides of some cups. "It's been far too long, don't you think?" Ethan shrugged and she chuckled. "Last time I heard of you, you were in Chile backpacking!"

"Yeah, that was nearly five years ago. How've you been Elaine?" He asked. Elaine offered him a drink, which he denied and he could see from the sparkle in her eye that she was glad he did. Elaine had seen firsthand Ethan at his lowest. She leaned forward, supporting herself with an elbow on top of the wooden counter and whispered.

"I've been waiting, Ethan—both for you to arrive again and for death to come and take me." Ethan knitted his eyebrows and frowned. Anyone could have thought she'd been joking, but he could tell by her expression that she was beyond serious. There'd always been something about Elaine. She had always watched and cared for him, truly cared.

"My father died yesterday, Elaine."

"I'm aware."

"He told me to come to New Orleans, that somehow I needed to be here, to find out about my mother." Elaine exhaled heavily and called up on one of her waiters to take over the bar for her.

Ethan followed her behind a back door and up narrow and spiraling iron stairs. Suddenly they were in a place where Ethan had never before stepped foot on—Elaine's apartment. It was just as exotic as she was. Persian rugs, different sizes, patterns and colors covered each corner of her floor like a giant patchwork. She had dusty shelves filled with large tomes of books seemingly from the last century. Incense, jasmine, filled the room with a strong and sweet smell. The room was dark but a few candles scattered about and besides the large leather sofa, worn and soft, filled with silk Indian cushions—there was only a small round table with two chairs and a small wooden box at the middle.

"Pain and hatred is coming your way, Ethan. I saw it in the cards." She signaled for him to sit in the chair across from her and opened the box, pulling out a marijuana cigarette and lighting it, to his shock, without the means of a lighter. She inhaled and it much reminded him of Vanessa back in London, who was also an adept. "You know, I saw that you were coming to New Orleans—it was I who told your father to order you here. And yes, I do happen to know him—the bastard who killed my only daughter." Ethan's eyes widened in recognition and Elaine stretched her arms so that her hands firmly held his in her own. "I hope you know that this will be quite a long story…"

"So you are my grandmother?" Elaine nodded. "You were meant to be dead."

"Well, I was in a way, dead to your mother—she refused to be a part of my endeavors."

"What are your endeavors exactly, somehow it doesn't seem like just a bar…"

"Do you believe, Ethan, that there is a world, between this of the living and that of the dead? Well, I do and more than that, I am a part of it such as your mother was, though reluctantly—such as your beautiful English girlfriend—such as those demons and nightwalkers who haunt her." Elaine inhaled more of her cigarette and handed it to him, for politeness' sake. Ethan couldn't help but savor the heady taste of the drug between his lips and allow for it to liberate and heighten his senses. This all just seemed so God damn absurd…

…

Across an ocean, in the sunrise of the moors, they sat together, Joan and Vanessa by the fire and the older woman, slowly revealed to her the myth-like history of her family—their family. This was all how the chaotic war they were in the midst of came to be.

…

 _It all began on a lonely, stormy night on the Ballantrae moors—the year was 1612. Desperate cries of pain and agony that came with the blessing or curse of giving life—pushing, squeezing, the sweat dripping from the dark-haired mother's forehead, sprawled on the floor against a sack of potatoes, legs spread open and windows threatening to burst because of the howling and forceful winds._

 _This was what life summed up to be, probably. A succession of misfortunes and great sufferings placated here and there by few and ephemeral moments of joy, laughter and contentment—so that this way, people can have something to dwell on and hope for. It had been the utmost joy and pleasure that led her to being here right now, nature showing her it's cruel façade by exposing her to the most excruciating pain, her body struggling to expel a tiny infant, one more human being that would suffer a great deal, but hopefully, less so than his or hers mother._

 _1,2,3. 1,2,3. She repeatedly counted in between breaths and pushes. Her heart beat erratically in her chest and as the time approached, she gradually began to feel lightheaded, especially as the tiny body slipped out of her, into her waiting hand. She felt a sharp pang in her womb and held her intake of breath as she took out her knife and cut the umbilical cord, then swaddling the blood-covered child in pristine white cloths as if she'd done this a million times before. She was quick and efficient, as with almost everything she did. A small tap on the baby's bottom and cries similar to those of a baby goat—hoarse and not too loud filled the room. A girl._

 _Exhausted, the new mother held her infant child against her naked chest, gazing with wonder at her tiny face, hands gently wiping off the crimson contents of her womb that stuck to the baby's delicate skin. For the first time the mother kissed her daughter's little forehead, more afraid than she had ever been. Her baby was so tiny, so fragile. Her precious little girl._

 _"_ _You shall be Joan, after your father—the only man I ever dared to love and the mighty girl saint. My darling and precious Joan..."_

 _Suddenly, the pangs, similar to very strong cramps continued to ache in her lower abdomen and the pain grew increasingly stronger as the seconds passed—the young mother was now all too aware that it was not yet over. She laid baby Joan, wrapped in the cloths an arm's length away in a small stack of dry hay, as the agonizing process of labor once again began and in minutes, the angry cries of Evelyn filled the world around them._

 _Those sisters who once so much loved and adored one another, became the greatest of enemies over a century later, when Evelyn sought the leadership of their coven, that rightfully belonged to her older sister Joan. Calling upon forbidden blood spells and the alliance and intervention of the Father of Evil, Evelyn massacred hundreds of members of their coven, who refused to support her—their aging mother, Viviane, had been one of them. Joan had been branded and defeated—suffered the greatest of humiliations. She hadn't been strong or capable enough to ensure the safety of her people. The only thing it seemed, she had done right, was to protect the life of their youngest sister, Elaine, a small child, and send her off to the safety of the New World._


End file.
